


Five Times Sherlock Terrified John

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mentions of murder and rape and cannibalism, Moral Issues, appalling flippancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the one time Sherlock was terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Next Stage of A Relationship: Locking Bedroom Doors.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno why.

John thoroughly enjoyed this, perhaps even more than the act itself. The rasping breath past swollen lips, flush splotchy and high on his cheeks, come glistening on his belly, John regarded those as transcendental novelties in themselves.

He allowed his gaze to linger as Sherlock shuddered with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and with great reluctance, leaned over the bed to scoop his tee off the floor to wipe themselves clean with. Of course, he'd be the one wiping; Sherlock lay prone and dazed, whimpering as John brushed against his too sensitive flesh, still slick with come. Eyelashes fluttering, he murmured something incoherent. As usual, John hoped he would fall asleep in his bed, and somehow remain that way until morning.

As usual, he had hoped in vain, because not twenty seconds later Sherlock surged up and kissed him so quickly that John hardly even took notice before the pair of lips vanished and Sherlock bounced off the bed, hunting for his pants. In his earlier haste to get undressed and get going, John had tossed it to the far end of the room. Sherlock spotted it with alacrity that was frustrating, and John watched mournfully as he stepped into them. 

Expecting Sherlock to remain idly sated and comfortable willingly was like expecting a hurricane to freeze in place. 

"Going to bed?" He asked, hoping to sound nonchalant, but sounding every bit disappointed.

Sherlock was, of course, completely oblivious, and offered up a noncommittal grunt before whirling out, leaving the door ajar – an epitome of courtesy.

John heaved a sigh and flopped down onto his back. There was probably an experiment that needed urgent tending to, or  _starting_ , for that matter. A text message had arrived not minutes ago that Sherlock read out between writhing and intonations of " _John_ "s. Something, he vaguely recalled, concerning bodies drained of blood and missing organs.

He tried not to think about how unaffected, if not more fervent, the text had left their lovemaking, suddenly feeling as though he spent more time than not trying not to think about one thing or the other. The decidedly illegal pipe bomb Sherlock was assembling on the kitchen table, the potential permanent damage Sherlock had done to the plumbing with some form of acid, Sherlock's indifference to cuddling.

 _Specially_   Sherlock's indifference to cuddling. John huffed and turned to his side, now staring at the wall, trying valiantly not to think of that one.

But the fact remained: cuddling was absolutely immaterial to Sherlock, as was plumbing and the legal barriers on blowing things up. It sounded as though he was dragging furniture around now, and while keeping the volume of his brainwork down fell into the absolutely immaterial category, John could only hope he could rein in the excitement of a new case, having had moaned all weekend about prosaic crimes and thus left no room for John to tentatively broach the topic of moving into the same bedroom, maybe even sleep on the same bed, and, if he was amenable,  _maybe even cuddle._

He groaned into his pillow, half-relieved now that he hadn't gotten the chance. Sherlock's face, bemused upon the suggestion, floated up to the front of his mind.  _Why would I want to do that_ , John could almost hear him asking, before twirling off to create more _things_  John would later have to clean up.

A loud clang issued from downstairs and John paid it little mind as he flicked off the lamp and sank into the sweat soaked sheet. It smelled heavily of Sherlock, and John burrowed into it, feeling exceptionally needy as another clang sounded, reminding him that Sherlock was here, they just had sex, and Sherlock was  _clanging_ things instead of nuzzling his neck, or whatever Sherlocks did if they ever cuddled.  

John wondered if Sherlock had a concept of nuzzling in the first place.

The loud clangs soon turned into a rhythmic, softer, clanging, and John, exhausted from his shift and sex and basically just  _Sherlock,_ fell asleep soon after.

It was still dark when he was blinking up at the ceiling, and for a moment John couldn't tell why he'd awoken. He felt a sharp twinge in his right arm, and blearily looked towards it.

Sherlock, still in his pants, face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp, was kneeling besides the bed and calmly pumping his blood into a blood bag.

"Sh'lock", John mumbled, with the air of a man who had yet not completely registered a maniac stealing his blood. "What're you doing?"

Sherlock continued to pump, and barely just glanced up at him.

"Oh, just required some blood", he stated airily, and held up the bag, which was now almost half full. "Three quarters a pint should do."

"M'kay", John said. His eyes shut for a moment, and then they flew open.

" _Sherlock!"_

"Keep  _still,_ John," Sherlock said with great disapproval, and withdrew diligently, stemming the flow with a wad of cotton. John jerked his arm back, ignoring the twinge, and twisted up with difficulty, one hand pressing against his wound.

"You can't just steal blood like that, Sherlock", he reprimanded hotly. "I could have medical conditions, I could  _die"._

Sherlock poured the blood into a wine glass that sat on the nightstand. "I  _know_   you don't have any conditions, John. Don't be tedious."

" _God,_ Sherlock", John snapped, and temporarily forgot about his arm. Blood promtly rushed out and dripped onto his sheet, and he hurriedly pressed a hand to it again.

 "You can't just  _take_ people's  _blood! Jesus._ "

Sherlock straightened and fixed him with a blank stare, one hand holding the glass aloft.

"Not good?"

John grimaced and looked away for a moment, trying not to think about how he'd never be able to drink wine again.

"You can feel free to take my blood any time you like", Sherlock offered, and then frowned contemplatively. "Unless I'm otherwise occupied."

John sighed heavily. "Please don't take my blood while I'm sleeping."

Sherlock looked rather put off.

"What do you need it for, anyway?" John was almost too afraid to ask.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

Sherlock looked down at the liquid. He swirled it once, and he swirled it again. 

And then he drank.

John might've shouted in shock, scrambling across the bed so fast that he hit his head on the wall. Sherlock paid him no mind, rolling the after-taste in his mouth thoughtfully.

" _Sherlock",_ John said, voice two octaves higher. " _What the fuck!"_

"Not bad", Sherlock said, as though it was wine he was trying, and emptied the glass with another gulp. John blinked and gaped.

"I'm", he said, and swallowed heavily. "I'm going to be sick."

His discomfort went ignored.

"It's an experiment", Sherlock explained, stooping to collect the apparatus. "Going to wait half an hour, and take notes. Need to see if I'll crave more."

John thought he might cry. "Please don't", he implored.

Sherlock smiled at him in what could only be construed as meant to be consoling, but only managed to be ten degrees of more terrifying with his bloodstained teeth.  _John's blood_.

"At least I'm not experimenting with organs." He said, and strutted out the bedroom. John stared after him, feeling very faint. The terror passed, and John rubbed at his face wearily. 

"Definitely never be able to drink wine again", he grumbled and lay down, swallowing against the nausea.  

Forget sharing a bedroom. He'd have to start locking the door to his own.


	2. Safety Precautions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds the sudden need to take precautions with his partner.

An experiment was burbling away in their kitchen, filling the flat with such nefarious fumes that John, spluttering and blinking back tears, had been forced to drag the ominously unaffected detective and himself down to Speedy's. It was probably for the best, for the refridgerator was empty, save for some odd looking samples at various stages of decay.

Sherlock sat slumped forwards, chin planted on his palms, stealing John's eggs. John munched on a toast and happily indulged the thievery and, although just barely, the obligatory vivisection of every passerby.

Soon the passerbys grew numerous, as passerbys are wont to do, and just as John began tearing off a piece to better occupy Sherlock's mouth with toast, (and also because he was partial to hand-feeding his lover), Sherlock shot up in his chair, clearly sighting something of great interest.

"What?" John asked, startled.

Sherlock's eyes were affixed on a blond man, who took no notice and rushed straight past them. A slightly man of average height and receding hairline – there was nothing remarkable about him. John watched him slip into a table behind them, and turned back to Sherlock, who huffed, slumping back in his chair and fidgeting.

"Almost interesting", he said.

"What is?"

Sherlock jerked his chin towards the stranger.

"He just murdered his wife."

John dropped the toast, and glanced at the man over one shoulder. He sat hunched over a menu, plaid shirt hanging off his thin shoulders. One hand was splayed out on the table, fingers tapping away arrhythmically.  He looked quite innocuous.

"Why would you say that?" John asked, turning to find that Sherlock was now poking at the toast, as though trying to decide whether or not he wanted it. Apparently deciding he didn't, he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, placidly eyeing the alleged criminal.

"Sweat on his temples", he said quietly, "but it's cold out. He's panting slightly, but not as much as he should be, so he was running hard, but he spent a good few minutes pacing outside. He didn't plan to enter, he doesn't have his wallet on him – he's taking his time poring over the menu, but he doesn't mean to order. Look at it, it's shaking, because his hands are: he's trying to decide his next course of action. The ring on his finger – tan line just visible below it – he's twisted it off and back on about a dozen times just while pacing."

"Fresh scar across the back of his hand from the struggle, so he used a knife – butcher knife; a sloppy job, because he's not used to handling one. There was blood on his hands that he washed off, but didn't bother to roll up his sleeves in his haste: they're still damp. He didn't get blood anywhere else, thankfully – or so he thinks. Look at the stains on his jeans."

John looked with caution. Indeed, there was a suspicious looking stain, what could be blood, but what could also be anything else.

"Could be ketchup", he murmured.

Sherlock gave him a strange look.

"He hasn't had breakfast yet, John, look at his shoelaces."

John stared at Sherlock, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He glanced around the small café.

"Shouldn't we phone Lestrade?"

Sherlock whipped out his phone and flicked through the messages. "No", he said absently.

John raised his eyebrows in question. "Why not?"

Sherlock glanced up and met his eyes, and then rolled his own with a long suffering sigh.

"Look at the back of his neck, John. Bruises."

"From the struggle? But why…"

" _No, not_ from the struggle, they're already fading", Sherlock said, as though he were explaining something to a child. "From sex, John. Look at the shapes, strong fingers, obviously non-consensual. Molly can attest to that – we co-wrote a paper on bruise patterns. You should read it, it's quite interesting."

"So you're saying", John glanced back, and then leaned across the table, getting toast crumbs on his jumper. "You're saying his wife _raped_ him."

"Yes. Often, I'd say", Sherlock said, and pushed back his chair, one foot tapping impatiently.

"Just your regular domestic abuse. Not worth my time. They can hunt him down on their own if they like. I have to say though; I'd do a lot more than just stab my partner, for much, _much_ less." He got to his feet, leaned over and brushed a kiss onto John's cheek.

"Later", he said. John watched him exit, coat swishing behind him, quite stiff and stricken in his chair, dimly wondering if he ought to text Lestrade.

He did in the end, out of a half-formed sense of moral obligation that Sherlock would probably laugh at.

John decided he'd rather have Sherlock laughing at him, and made a mental note to get him the oris speculum he'd been whining about – whatever he required it for. And not gripe about possibly being gassed to death too, he reminded himself, trying to banish mental images of being violently butchered.

Or a lot more, whatever his mad partner meant by that.


End file.
